The crackling of the olive oil popping around the meatballs and the sausages. The spicy smell of the tomatoes flavored with garlic and basil leaves just pulled from the window garden, floating on the sauce, waiting for the thick, rich paste, sweetened to taste, to be poured into the black iron frying pan along with the browned meatballs and sausages; the flowing juices of the Italian sausage mingling with olive oil drippings laid the foundation for a fountain of unspeakable aromas that permeated the entire house.
The black coffee beans grinding in the old hand-driven grinder created an aroma, although pungent, that competed with the Italian herbs for first place in the nostrils and tasting buds of the fortunate guests allowed to share this ritualistic, traditional reenactment of Sicilian life in America.
The kitchen table covered with a laced cloth, embroidered with designs of simple tastes, but always appealing, and becoming more inviting when the small, dainty demitasse cups, resting on a flowered saucer, are filled with the black, thick, and very strong coffee laced with a cinnamon stick; the sugar bowl in the center of the table shared the remaining space with the playing cards, used mostly for solitaire, the game of the lonely.
The holidays were a gathering of the entire family, filling the kitchen, and overflowing into the dining room, where the black smoke of burning tobacco leaves hovered over the gambling table, a converted dining room table, soon to become the dinner table at the sound of Mangiamo!
The loud talking, necessary, in order to be heard; the conversations, seldom educational, but always emotional, and always ending with kisses and some tears brought on by the surfacing of old wounds.
The card games, always friendly, but punctuated with advice from the non-players, added to the excitement and noise in the dining room. The kitchen help had their rummy games, and the laughter of daughters and daughters-in-law, enjoying the jokes, sometimes a little naughty, told in Italian, but it was a moment of smiles - a day of remembrances.
The clanging and banging of pots and pans was the signal of approaching culinary delights. All card games stopped and tables were cleared for the china and the silverware. I remember the spontaneous change in the activities when my grandmother announced, in the grand style of the beloved matriarch, that the eight hours of preparation were over. The table must now be set with the white tablecloths and linen napkins, which were always kept in the bottom drawer of the china closet, an antique, but always shining like new. The shouting now gave way to organized efficiency; everyone seemed to know his or her responsibility.
The tables were set, and the jubilant, but now more reserved, guests were seated in their places; the sound of shuffling feet, and the appearance of a little, old lady in her customary housedress, with that neat and always clean half-apron, was the signal that the feast would, without any fanfare or oratory, begin!